At Once The Shame and Glory
by ellesmer.joe3
Summary: Hannibal sees it again: the telltale crimson spark that slips into the vivid green of her eyes, turning them all the more sinister. She looks at Hannibal, and he at her, and he knows. The thrill of such a realization, such recognition, sends a shiver down his spine; he is not alone.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **I used the likeness of Emma Roberts as Heather while writing this. (BEFORE she got the bangs, mind you.)**

 **All I own is Heather; all other rights go to NBC.**

* * *

 _A tender poet of foreign tongue,_

 _(Indited in the language that he sung.)_

 _A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page_

 _At once the shame and glory of our age_

 _ **An excerpt from "Enigma" by Edgar Allan Poe**_

.

The first time he sees her is at an art exhibition in Annapolis.

Alana invited him and he thought it would have been rude to decline. It was during the weekend, anyway, and he had no urgent appointments then. It would be a good opportunity to deepen his relationship with Alana, as well. He wasn't sure when he would need her influence to get him out of a tight spot.

He drives by Alana's residence dressed in a suit and tie. She slides into the passenger seat, and Hannibal is surprised to see her garbed in jeans, a blouse, and a scarf.

"I'm so sorry, I forgot to mention it's… well, it's not really a high-end exhibit, you know? I heard the artist is sort of new to the scene. They say she's really good though, so I thought it wouldn't matter… to you…"

She trails off, searching for words that might save her dignity.

Hannibal fights to keep his patience. He takes one look at her dark hair, her wary gaze. He chides himself: _You need her._

"No matter," he says, allowing a playful spark to appear in his eye. "I'll be the best dressed in the whole room."

And he was right. When they arrive, he can't look anywhere without being bombarded with the sight of denim and t-shirts and sneakers. There is a surprisingly large amount of adolescents within the area, probably friends of the artist. Hannibal has to resist the urge to scoff.

His qualms about the audience, however, all but vanish once Alana leads him into the gallery.

There are some sketches laid out on tables, some still-life paintings, but it is evident that the artist's strength lies abstract. Undoubtedly the younger viewers found it difficult to decipher the stories that sat before them. Tedious. Tiresome. But Hannibal has always enjoyed a good story.

The overuse of the element of texture, as well as the oftentimes blaring contrasts of warm and cold hues, betrays the inexperience of the artist, however Alana did say that she was 'new to the scene'. Despite this, Hannibal sees great potential. He sees it in the way the artist tends to blend her blues and oranges, resulting in particularly bold tales; the way she rarely uses any straight lines at all; even in the way she must flick her wrist too overtly when signing in the lower right corners of her works, therefore producing a dramatic upward curve at every end of her signature.

One piece in the far corner of the gallery has Hannibal particularly enthralled.

It is a simple sketch, a messy one at that, and by no means to be considered eye-catching – just a depiction of a small bridge stretching over a canal, amidst buildings and shops – but for Hannibal, it tugs at his heart and at something else in the back of his mind. Familiarity. Nostalgia.

"Hello."

Hannibal turns in the direction of the small voice and finds a lady standing there.

The black dress she wears hints at some form of sophistication and maturity, but then she is also wearing a pair of faded sneakers. Hair, that looks more orange than brown, is tied into a neat plait and sits at her shoulder; green eyes, staring openly at him. She looks young.

"Good evening." Hannibal nods in polite greeting, before turning his attention back to the piece.

"Your accent," she continues airily. "Where is it from?"

Hannibal doesn't know if she is just naturally curious or if she intends to be rude; some part of him hopes it isn't the latter. He answers vaguely. "Europe."

"Where from Europe?"

He merely smiles, and then watches as she ducks her head, sheepishly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Sorry, that was rude," she says. "It's just always fascinated me, I guess. I've only ever been there once. Amsterdam, in the Netherlands. I drew that while I was sitting in a coffee shop."

Hannibal blinks, first at the sketch before him, and then at the female standing beside him.

"It's fine. I get that a lot." She smiles good-naturedly and holds out her hand. "Heather Kaelin."

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter. It's a pleasure to meet you." He shakes her hand.

"A doctor? What kind?"

"I'm a psychiatrist."

"Really?" Her eyes begin to sparkle. "That's such a coincidence. I'm fresh out of a Psych major, you know. Just got my BS degree four months ago."

He lifts an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. "You didn't major in the arts?"

"Well, it was kind of a side job more than anything. I took some workshops here and there, hosted a few myself, but that was all."

"You're doing exceptionally well, considering."

"Thank you," she murmurs, and Hannibal has to bite back a smile; her blush is quite appealing. "What do you think of the show so far?"

Before he can answer, someone calls her name from across the room: an older man, perhaps the only person apart from Hannibal who is dressed in formal attire. Heather perks up and Hannibal knows immediately that he won't be seeing her again for the rest of the night. She looks frustrated, at least. Small consolation.

"I'm so sorry, but I have to go now."

"I understand."

She is already walking away, but she calls over her shoulder, "It was nice meeting you!"

Alana approaches him not long afterwards, firing questions about his conversation with the artist. He answers in few words, disenchanted – but hopeful. He has her name.

.

The next time he sees her is in a Home Depot, in Baltimore, and they quite literally bump into each other.

He was just about to exit the aisle when she turns the corner. She drops the basket in her hands out of pure shock alone, but Hannibal is quick to grab her wrist, keeping her from hitting the shelves.

"Crap. I am _so_ sorry, I'm such a…" She trails off then, because her eyes finally alight upon his figure and recognition dawns. She pales at first, before blood rushes up her neck and colors her face a very bright shade of pink. "Oh. Hi! S-Sorry, uh, Doctor Lecter, right?"

"Please, call me Hannibal." He picks up her basket and hands it over to her, very swiftly taking note of the contents. Standard supplies, except perhaps for the disturbingly large jar that somehow didn't shatter when she'd dropped the basket.

She clears her throat. "You don't happen to know where the paint thinners are, do you?"

He points in the direction of them, just down the aisle. As she rushes over to pick out the brand she wants, Hannibal allows himself to run his eyes over her figure. She's dressed even less impressively than when he last saw her: this time, in nothing more than sweatpants and a hoodie. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, and when she raises her head, he doesn't fail to notice the lines and splatters of color on her face.

"You've been painting," he says, making no effort to hide the amusement in his voice; he does because he knows it will make her blush, and he is right.

"It's for another exhibit I've been booked for."

"Oh? When?"

"13th of next month."

"I'll be there."

"You… don't have to, you know."

"I want to be there of my own accord, I assure you."

She blinks, and he delights in how she looks so like a deer caught in headlights. Slowly the smile returns to her face. "That's great! Hannibal, I'm actually in a rush—it's just, I had this epiphany, like, ten minutes ago, so I ran over here to get some more supplies but I really have to get back before it gets away from me, you know?"

 _Rambling,_ Hannibal notes. _Most likely because of nerves. I make her nervous._ "I completely understand. Would you like a ride back?"

"That… Actually that'd be great. If you're finished here, that is," she hastily amends.

He smiles. "I am."

They make their way to the counter. Hannibal does not offer to pay for her items, positive that she won't appreciate it, no matter his intentions.

The cashier is a grimy, middle-aged man with a beer belly and thinning hair. He has the terrible habit of chewing gum, _loudly_ , and not being careful with the items he's scanning. Hannibal gathers that he is a lazy man, possibly still lives with his mother – but then he notices something else.

Heather.

Her eyes have narrowed into slits. She is breathing heavily. When the last of her items have been scanned, she slides the money over the counter, ignoring the cashier's outstretched hand. She takes the paper bag containing her purchases and briskly moves aside to make space for Hannibal.

Hannibal wordlessly allows the cashier to scan his items, pays for them, and then leads Heather to where his car is parked. She gives him the name of her street, which he is fortunately familiar with. The ride to her house is quiet. Though a bit irritated with the lack of conversation, he cannot bring himself to fault her completely. Judging from the glazed look in her eye, she is most probably lost in her head, visualizing something for a piece.

"I can't wait to see it," he says, once they've arrived at the apartment building where she lives. She grins.

"Thanks so much for the ride." She exits the car and all but runs across the street – and Hannibal cannot deny the quick rush of horror when she doesn't even look both ways first. She does, however, throw him a look over her shoulder. "I'll see you at the show!"

He stares after her, unable to shake from his mind the picture of her green eyes, usually so kind and sincere, glittering with dark intent as she had glared at the cashier from the Home Depot. Hannibal smiles languidly, taking note of her address before pulling away.

 _Potential, indeed._

.

He does not inform Alana of his meeting with Heather, nor does he invite her to the art exhibition in Harford. He doesn't want any distractions.

.

The change in her is incontrovertible. Not in how she looks or dresses or speaks, nothing physiological – perhaps that is why no one else sees it, except for the ones who know art, for the ones knowledgeable enough of the human psyche to be able to understand. And then, of course, Hannibal.

It is subtle, but there. The warmth in her paintings has tapered down, the colors less vibrant, instead taking on a gloomier perspective. There are more browns, more grays and blacks. More fascinating, however, is the excess amount of red that she's used. Hannibal is certain she hadn't used that much red in the paintings from her previous exhibition.

Heather comes along eventually. They easily fall into light conversation.

When an admirer steps in-between them to introduce themselves to her, Hannibal sees it again: the telltale crimson spark that slips into the vivid green of her eyes, turning them all the more sinister. The avid fan eventually disappears but that spark does not, and she looks at Hannibal, and he at her, and he knows.

The thrill of such a realization, such _recognition_ , sends a shiver up his spine.

He is not alone.

.

They make sure to convene more often after that night: lunches outside, or dinners at his place, or merely just Hannibal watching her work in the close confines of her small apartment. He doesn't miss the way her eyes keep flickering up to him before immediately returning to her canvas. He knows that she takes some inspiration from him, and he doesn't mind.

It isn't long before she regales him with some of her darker thoughts. At random intervals, she says she would suddenly find herself wondering what it would be like to stab somebody, or to gut somebody, or to claw someone's eyes out.

Hannibal explains to her the sensations that she is so curious about.

And she is, for a moment, caught unawares. But that is gone soon enough, replaced by that grin that he was now quite familiar with.

He makes a point to regale her with his experiences more regularly.

.

One day, he takes her to his house. The cashier from the Home Depot is sitting hogtied in his basement. To the side, on a metal table, is everything Hannibal thought she would ever need. She looks at him, and he says, "Do with him what you will, Heather, to your heart's content."

She approaches it like how she would approach one of her paintings: thoughtfully, yet with a recklessness that shakes him to the core. There is room for improvement – _Yes,_ he thinks. _Definitely room for improvement_ – but he knows that can easily be remedied.

When she is finished, not one inch of her is clean of blood. There is a look of childlike wonder on her face; her eyes are dark and wide and glittering. Hannibal thinks she has never looked more like art than at that moment.

He tells her to clean herself up, regretfully taking note of how the light in her eyes seem to dim upon registering his words.

He makes up for it.

As soon as she steps out of the shower, hair still damp and skin smelling of lavender and blood, he rips the towel off her body and takes her to his bed. He fucks her, pounding deep, because he knows she will like it. Her breasts are soft and pliable in his hands, her nipples ripe as he takes them into his mouth, her clit engorged as he rubs mercilessly. She sobs.

She is tight around him, and wet and warm. She claws into his back when he makes her come a fourth time, cries out his name into the open air so perfectly that he can no longer hold back. With three hard thrusts he makes her come again, this time following her into oblivion.

.

She is his accomplice, for a while. She comments on the work they do as "fun", and Hannibal is inclined to agree. But, perfection does not last forever.

She surprises him though. She asks no questions, not even when he shows up on her porch, battered and bloody, and tells her to pack up her entire life. He doesn't have to drag her onto the plane. She marches beside him, a willing soldier in the war he has waged against the FBI.

He takes her to his home – his first home, in Lithuania. After a heartbeat, she pulls her sketchpad and pencil out of her backpack and begins feverishly drawing. Hannibal watches from over her shoulder.

She draws the castle, with all its pointed ceilings and bricked walls. It is like the very first piece that had drawn his attention in her gallery – messy, rushed, and smudged, but it is hers and it is familiar. When she is finished, she tears the page from the book and gives it to him, smiling.

"So you'll remember."

It is easy to entertain the idea of loving her, then, but he knows he can never again be capable of that. Only care, only devotion.

He kisses her though. That, he can do.

.

It is a fine day in Lithuania when the inevitable happens. Hannibal fights for his freedom, tooth and nail, but it is in vain. He finds solace in the fact that just as great cities are fated to crumble, he too must fall.

Heather struggles at first, like a wild cat protecting its brood, but once her eyes find him, still and calm, and resigned, she settles.

When they are separated, the last thing he sees on her face is a grin. _That_ grin. They take him away and he cannot bring himself to feel too bad, even though he never sees nor hears from her again. For years.

.

The both of them, Hannibal and Heather, were gods for a time: feared and glorious and, in her words from what felt like a millennia ago, said in such a way that had been meant to replicate the accent of the aristocracy, "The sophisticated reimagining of Bonnie and Clyde." Behind bars, being ridiculed by the so-called 'men of justice', Hannibal remains sure of himself. He conjures up the image of her green eyes, glazed over darkly with bloodlust and excitement, and he smiles.

They'd had their fill of lamb once, and a chance would come again.

In time.

* * *

 **A/N:** **I think it's important to know that I haven't watched a single episode of Hannibal in my entire life. I've wanted to, but I just haven't had the time. I had to settle for watching videos on YouTube and reading important plot points from the wiki to be able to write this.**

 **My brother did tell me about Silence of the Lambs though, so that's how I know Hannibal is captured and that he eventually escapes, hence, my cryptic ending. Still, I'm sorry if I absolutely missed my shot at Hannibal's character. I hope it wasn't too OOC.**


	2. Ungodly Hour

**A/N: I'm not completely satisfied with how this was written, but I've fallen into a deep, deep hole of writer's block and I wanted to put this out there to feel even a small sense of accomplishment. With preparing for college entrance exams and just generally feeling like crap, I really need it. I apologize in advance for any errors.**

 **Also, I'm pretty sure this story would be cute if it wasn't so fucked up.**

* * *

" _Ethics become aesthetics."_

 _ **Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal S03E01, "Primavera")**_

.

Hannibal accepts a glass of champagne from one of the servers and pauses in one corner of the room, eyes expertly surveying his surroundings. The get-together has been in full swing for at least an hour; small groups have formed and drinks have been served. The light din of polite conversation echoes in Hannibal's ears as he takes a sip of his champagne. There are guards stationed at each entrance and exit but Hannibal knows security will be lax tonight. It's only a social gathering, after all, and no one of particular import is in attendance.

His gaze settles on a figure at the far side of the room: his prey, Dr. Roman Fell, who is rather dynamically conversing with a few attendees.

"You're late."

A smirk tugs on Hannibal's lips. He glances at Heather as she sidles up next to him, nursing her own flute of champagne.

"I had to take care of Bedelia's accommodations for the night," he says.

"And where is dear Dr. Du Maurier?"

"Elsewhere and none the wiser. You needn't worry about her now."

"I don't know why you had to bring her along, Hannibal. She doesn't trust you, so I can't trust her." A little huff escapes her, which Hannibal silently delights in. "It doesn't help that she's always trying to psychoanalyze me. I only like it when you do it."

"I do find joy in trying to understand incomprehensible things." Ducking his head slightly, he murmurs into her ear, "And you, incomprehensible darling – you look good enough to eat."

And she does. Her little black velvet dress hugs her waistline and ends a few inches above her knees. Her shoulders are bare save for two thin straps holding the material up, and it would be perfectly decent, considering, if the back of it didn't dip so low that Hannibal could see the dimples at the base of her spine. He places his fingers there, tracing small circles onto her skin.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "You wouldn't."

He chuckles and pulls his hand away. "I'm only teasing, of course."

She hums, turning away from him so she can scrutinize Fell. But out of the corner of her eye, she notices something else.

"You have an admirer," she says under her breath.

Surreptitiously, Hannibal cranes his neck as he drinks from his flute. Anyone else would think that he is merely scanning the room in search for an acquaintance or a friend. Heather is right, though; standing by the bar is a man with salt and pepper hair and eyes that seem far too interested in Hannibal and his escort.

The man smiles at Hannibal, approaches and introduces himself as Anthony Dimmond.

"Boris Jakov," Hannibal replies.

"I'd offer a hand but…"

Hannibal's eyes barely flicker to the two flutes currently in Dimmond's care. "It's a double-fisted kind of bash."

"And this lovely sprite is?" Dimmond directs his attention to Heather. She doesn't miss the way his eyes stray to her chest.

Resisting the urge to glare, she smiles and bows her head good-naturedly. "Imogen Clark. I'm a good friend of Boris'."

"More than friends, from what I saw."

Heather's eyes widen slightly. _Rude,_ she muses, glancing at Hannibal and smirking when she sees the glint of murderous intent in his eyes. "Do stop your tongue from wagging, Mr. Dimmond," she chides. "Boris is married. I'm friends with his wife."

"Oh, well then I must apologize. And please, do call me Anthony. 'Mr. Dimmond' makes me feel so old," Dimmond says. "Do you know Roman well?"

Heather looks at Hannibal, feigning hesitation when in reality, she isn't sure what she should say; they hadn't discussed Boris Jakov and Imogen Clark's relationship with Roman Fell. Hannibal sends her a vaguely chastising look just as Dimmond picks up the conversation again, eyes sparkling.

"The both of you were staring at him with thinly veiled disdain, a look I know all too well," he says. "I was his TA at Cambridge. He was insufferable even then."

He downs his second flute of champagne in one go and passes his empty glasses to a nearby server.

"Have you read his books?" he asks, pulling out a worn novel from within his jacket. Heather isn't able to quell her glower then; it's gone by the time Dimmond's eyes shift from Hannibal back to her. "They're terrible. You know they're terrible. You're just too polite to say. Blink if you agree."

He stares expectantly at Hannibal, so Hannibal blinks.

"See?" Grinning, Dimmond moves closer to Heather, close enough that his shoulder brushes against hers. "That doesn't stop him from squatting over his keyboard and depositing a fresh one every six to eight months. It takes me six to eight months to write _one line_."

Some sort of noise must have escaped Heather without her meaning it to, because then Hannibal and Dimmond are staring at her with raised eyebrows – the former more out of amusement if the slight lilt on his mouth is anything to go by.

"Do you write, Imogen?" Dimmond inquires.

Heather thinks fast. Hannibal hadn't said anything against sharing her past occupation.

"No, thankfully," she says. "I paint."

"Oh? Any exhibits in the near future? Perhaps I can drop by sometime."

"I'm actually on a bit of a break right now. Searching for inspiration and all that."

"Shame." His disappointment sounds genuine. "Any kind of art is difficult, isn't it? For Roman, though, it's easier to slide into academia and dissect the work of others than it is to stand by his own words."

Hannibal tilts his head in consideration. "One can appreciate another's words without dissecting them," he says. "Though, on occasion, dissection is the only thing that will do."

Heather bites back a smile, recalling that Hannibal used to study to be a surgeon. Dimmond, of course, remains completely in the dark. He keeps talking and Heather chimes in from time to time; otherwise she is all too happy to let Hannibal take the reins.

When Dimmond finally leaves, Heather glares at the back of his head and takes a long pull from her champagne.

"Well done," Hannibal says. "But your poker face could use some work."

"Sorry," Heather says. "It's just that he seemed more interested in my breasts than anything else I had to say."

"His time will come, I assure you." He pauses. "Although, I can't say I blame him."

Heather blinks up at him and then grins. "Business first, Doctor Lecter."

He makes a little humming noise from the back of his throat before abruptly leaning away from her. "Speaking of business."

She follows his gaze and sees that Fell has disappeared into the coat room.

"Let's go."

Hannibal leads her out of the building and to where his bike is parked. He gives her his jacket before straddling the seat. Heather smiles, standing by the wall and appreciatively eyeing the taut muscles in Hannibal's back as he leans forward on his motorcycle.

Fell exits the building not long afterwards.

" _Bonsoir_ ," Hannibal greets him. Fell replies with a dismissive gesture and Heather doesn't bother to hide the predatory grin that edges up her mouth.

Wordlessly, Hannibal starts the engine and makes space for her on the seat. She wraps her arms around his midsection and places her cheek on the base of his spine. The engine purrs deliciously between her legs – coupled with the anticipation of what she and Hannibal are about to do, she would be lying if she said that she isn't already faintly aroused.

They follow Dr. Fell to his house in a vaguely suburban area. It is well past midnight and there are no passing cars to be seen. The lights in the neighboring houses are all off.

When Fell arrives, a crease appears between his eyebrows upon seeing Hannibal and Heather there.

" _Bonsoir_ ," he says: a vain attempt at politeness. His voice lilts higher at the end, giving away his confusion.

" _Bonsoir_ ," Heather replies, flashing her sultriest smile.

She only has to bat her eyelashes and finger her necklace, effectively drawing his gaze to her chest, in order to convince him that she is worthy of entertaining. He is slightly reluctant to invite Hannibal inside, but Heather assures him that Hannibal is as big of a fanatic as she is.

Hannibal makes quick work of Fell as soon as the door closes behind them. He holds up the liver and raises an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

"Famished," she replies. "I'll get the wine."

When she returns, Hannibal is hard at work in the kitchen. She doesn't know where Fell's body is but she doesn't bother to search. Instead, she puts a classical record on and pours two glasses of wine for her and Hannibal. She nurses hers as she leans against the kitchen isle, admiring Hannibal's lithe grace and wondering about what the night will bring.

As he is plating the dish, Heather creeps toward him from behind and plants a kiss on his shoulder, announcing her presence.

"Hello," he says. She hears the smile in his voice.

Before she can say anything in reply, they hear the front door open and close and lights being switched on in the main hall. Heather rises onto her toes and murmurs innocently into Hannibal's ear, "Please?"

"She's all yours."

She captures Hannibal's earlobe between her teeth and gives it a teasing pull, skittering away before he can reprimand her for it.

Lydia Fell is fit and taller than Heather by a few inches, but Heather has always enjoyed brawling more than she cares to admit. She also has the element of surprise. The two of them scuffle in the foyer for a few minutes, Heather making sure that the other woman never gets the opportunity to pull on Heather's hair. At the end, Heather smashes Roman Fell's decanter of scotch to the ground and slits Lydia's throat with one of the glass shards.

Hannibal finds her kneeling beside the pool of Lydia Fell's blood, head tilted slightly. She is eyeing her reflection. He watches as she dips her forefinger into the blood red pool and spreads the warm liquid all over her lips.

"You've ruined your dress," he remarks.

"Aren't you going to tell me I look better out of it?"

"You already know it. Come, dinner is getting cold." He turns away.

More than a little put-out, Heather follows him into the dining room. She is about to sit down when Hannibal calls for her to stop. Confused, she looks at him.

"Careful not to get any blood on the seat," he says.

She knows he is only being careful; if the police find a bloody imprint of her backside on a dining room chair then they might trace it back to Hannibal's preferences towards meat, therefore putting their identities in jeopardy. Still, she can't help the little frisson of pleasure that crawls up her spine once an idea pops into her head – something naughty, but something she knows he will appreciate.

Smiling slyly, she pushes the straps of her dress off her shoulders and allows the smooth material to drop to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

Her chest heaves in anticipation and Hannibal's eyes darken at the sight. She seats herself at the table and takes a bite of his cooking, never taking her eyes off him. After a moment, he sits down as well. They eat in tense, electrifying silence.

She's barely finished with her meal before he suddenly pushes his chair back and strides up to her. There is a gleam in his eye. He forces her out of her chair and onto the floor.

"W-What are you doing?" she says, afraid of him for a moment.

Her fear dissipates as soon as he pulls her underwear off. "Dessert," he growls. "I've been able to smell you even before we got here. Tell me, was it the purr of the engine, or was your mind providing you all sorts of delicious images of what we were going to do with the Fells?"

"Both." Her whimpers are drawn out into a moan when he shoves his fingers up her cunt, his thumb rubbing relentlessly against her clit, building her orgasm hard and fast.

When she comes, Hannibal throws her legs over his shoulders and drinks at the juices trickling out of her. He buries his face into her folds and _inhales_ her, eating her out like a man starved. There is none of his usual teasing, no delicacy. Heather suspects it is because of the built-up adrenalin from the night; she can't bring herself to care.

He makes her come with his mouth twice. By the time he sheathes himself within her, she is boneless and crying tears of ecstasy. Everything is so sensitive and Hannibal knows, even as he pounds into her with all his hidden strength. He pulls down the cup of her bra and draws her nipple into his mouth. She claws at his back.

"Again," he grunts. "Come for me. Again."

A pained look settles across her face. She shakes her head. "Don't know if I c-can."

Hannibal bares his teeth and grabs the backs of her knees. He presses her legs together, outstretched, and leans against her – nearly folding her in half but he is deeper than before, and in his pushing in and out of her, his cock drags against that one spot inside of her that makes her see stars.

She gasps, suddenly feeling the need to relieve herself. "H-Hannibal."

He doesn't stop. If anything, he pistons into her harder, grinding his hips upwards every time. There is a knowing look on his face and the set of his mouth suggests that he's waiting for _something_.

The pressure inside her builds into something more intense than she's ever felt before, keeps on building until she can only scream. Her vision dims.

When she regains awareness, Hannibal is smirking down at her. The warmth inside of her suggests that he's finished, but there is a significant amount of wetness beneath her that makes her frown in confusion.

Hannibal pinpoints the moment it dawns on her, and his smile widens. That smile solely reserved for her. He leans down and kisses her nose, her cheek, her temple. "You never cease to surprise me."

She laughs breathlessly and kisses his neck. "At least I know you'll never get tired of me."

He hums. "Perish the thought, Heather. You've followed me all this way. I could never get tired of you."

She believes him.


End file.
